Maggie's Breakfast (18 page)

Twenty minutes later I was standing outside the Shelbourne Hotel.

I hardly had time to place my feet on the pavement when the hotel doorman, dressed in a green-and-gold military-like outfit approached me.

“What are you standin’ there for?” he asked me.

By the look on his face I sensed he was wishing he had a broom to sweep me away from the hotel entrance. My attire may have prompted the man’s curiosity and question. The shirt and
trousers I was wearing previously belonged to my older brother and both were not only worn-out, they were at least two sizes too big for me. The effect of wearing oversized clothes made me look
younger and smaller than I really was. The trousers, made of Donegal tweed, had been purchased second-hand by my mother. In another lifetime the expensive material had more than likely belonged to
a rich man. By the time I was in possession of the tough fabric it had acquired a few holes in it, mainly at the knees, and after countless years of sitting a shine on the backside.

The man in the uniform leaned towards my face and repeated: “What are ya standin’ there for?”

Hardly knowing what I was saying, I blurted out, “How can I get a job in there?”

Mr. Doorman looked at me as if he had accidentally stepped into a pile of shit. He straightened his body backwards and I could see there was no trace of a welcoming smile on his face. Before I
could ask him anything else, he yelled at me again.

“What d’ya want?”

The man’s voice terrified me so much I couldn’t close my eyes or turn away.

“Can I get a job in there?” I blurted out.

The doorman appeared to be caught off guard by my question. When my knees stopped shaking I heard his voice again. This time it was calmer and I sensed an encouraging tone in it.

“What did you say?” he asked me as if asking me to return his wallet.

“I’d like t’work here. Can I?”

“Here?” he said as if I’d spat on his polished shoe.

The man was used to greeting and being greeted by the rich and famous and the sight of me trapped in worn-out oversized clothes didn’t enhance respect for his job. My shirt had missing
buttons and a safety pin fastening the neck was sticking out from under the large woollen pullover I was wearing. The pin, mainly because it was used so often, had snapped open. I’d made
several attempts to clasp it back but couldn’t. To avoid being stabbed by the pin I kept my chin up and looked as if I was about to say something important. This might have been the reason
the doorman kept staring at me. On the other hand it very well might have been the clothes I was dressed in.

He put his hand to the back of his neck, maybe to feel his pulse and to make sure he was not seeing or hearing things.

I asked again. “Can I get a job in there?”

Of the hundreds of people who crossed his path every day of the week the doorman didn’t seem quite prepared for this one. He took a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his
forehead with it. He pressed it against his nose and, appearing to be of two minds, pointed and without even looking at me said: “Go around the corner to the service entrance.” With a
great sense of relief and feeling I had survived a major confrontation I walked around the corner to where I saw a man in a long yellowish coat standing at a door.

As opposed to the man at the front entrance, the backdoor man looked lonely and abandoned. I approached him with more assurance than I had previously exhibited.

“I’m lookin’ for a job,” I said.

“A job?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“Nothin’.”

“How old are ya?”

“I’m nearly sixteen.”

“Who told you there was work here?”

“Nobody.”

“You just showed up?”

“The man around the front told me to come here.”

“Gerry?”

“He didn’t tell me his name.”

“Where d’you live?”

“Inchicore.”

With a very sorrowful look on his face he repeated, “Inchicore?”

“Yeah. Is there any chance of me workin’ here?”

The man put his hands into the two large pockets on his long yellow work coat. I thought he was feeling around for a few pennies to give and send me away. But he didn’t.

“Mr. Brown’s the assistant manager – does all the hirin’ and firin’. Go up to his office on the first floor but don’t tell him I sent ya.”

I followed the direction his finger was pointing. I walked down the corridor to Mr. Brown’s office. His name was painted on the door. I knocked and the door opened.

“What’s up? Did you knock?”

“I’m lookin’ for a job.”

“Who told you to come here?”

“The man with the yellow coat at the back gate.”

“Pat?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Come in.”

I went in.

“What kind of work are you looking for?”

“Any kind.”

“Y’know anything about serving?”

“I worked in Jury’s Hotel.”

“Doin’ what?”

“Page boy. I met a lot of waiters there.”

“Why are you not there then?”

“I was tricked into leavin’.”

“How?”

“Another page boy tricked me. He said he was goin’ to England and asked me to go with him. I was the first to give in my notice. When I did that, he changed his mind and stayed on
the job.”

“He didn’t leave with you?”

“No. He took over my job on the lift.”

“So he tricked you into leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Who told you there was work here?

“Nobody.”

“You just showed up?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a black bow-tie?”

“No.”

“A white shirt?”

“Just my brother’s. He gave it to me after it wore out.”

“Can you buy yourself a couple?”

“I’ve no money.”

“Where d’ya live?”

“Inchicore.”

“You didn’t work for the C.I.E.?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“My father.”

“What about him?”

“He didn’t work there.”

“Where’s he workin’?”

“He’s not.”

“On the Dole?”

“Yes.”

“No trade?”

“No.”

“Inchicore’s a bit out of the way.”

“It’s not that far.”

“How would you get to work here?”

“I’d walk.”

“You don’t have a bicycle?”

“No.”

“Are you out of school?”

“Yeah.”

“You got your Primary Certificate?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how you could work here without a white shirt, a bow tie and a bicycle. You’d have to be in by six in the mornin’ or half six at the latest.”

“This is the best hotel in Dublin, isn’t it?”

“I’d say the Shelbourne is the very best in Dublin. In fact, it’s the best hotel in Ireland. Everybody that’s important comes here.”

“Out front I saw a lot of rich people arriving.”

Mr. Brown continued to brag. “This hotel has class and tradition.”

“And maybe it has the best assistant manager too,” I added for good measure.

Mr. Brown liked my remark. “Thanks! You got me on a good day. Can you get a bicycle?”

“I can steal one.”

Mr. Brown leaned back in his chair. “Ah, don’t do that!” He laughed a little to himself.

“I was only jokin’,” I said.

He looked at me again, now much more seriously. Time passed. It might have been less than a minute but it felt like an hour.

“Inchicore? Isn’t that up near the Naas Road?” he asked.

“Yes.” I could tell he wasn’t from Dublin. He was from one of the ‘counties’ down the country somewhere.

The men from the ‘counties’ represented a different style and culture from those who were Dubliners. Dubliners were less interested in tomorrow than country people. Country people
were filled with ambition and seemed to hold almost all of the important jobs in Dublin. The country people played hurling and Gaelic football. Dubliners were more inclined to be involved with
English football, soccer. However, when it came to accommodating the crowds who attended the Gaelic and hurling finals, only the Croke Park stadium in Dublin could accommodate them. The stadium was
smack in the middle of the city. When the ‘counties’ clashed in sporting events their followers had not only to come to Dublin to play the games but they also had to pass through it on
their way back home, particularly if the teams came from any of the counties in the south. Inchicore was a junction on the road to and from Croke Park. Every summer, Corkmen, Kerrymen, returning
home from a hurling or Gaelic final at Croke Park had to pass through Inchicore. What’s more they had to drive under the bridge. Everybody I knew in Inchicore believed that the country people
had too much power, too much land, too many cattle and too much money. On Sundays when the countrymen were driving under the bridge in their cars with their county banners flying in the wind, they
got pelted with stones and sods of grass by a gang of boys who stood cheering on the bridge waving the blue and white colours of Dublin. I was never sure if any of the men from Cork or Kerry
noticed.

“When I was younger and there was a big match at Croke Park, me and some other fellas used to stand on the bridge and throw sods of grass at the cars that went by.”

“You did?” Mr. Brown asked with serious interest.

I tried to undo what I had confessed to and quickly added, “Not anymore. Denny Mack and me splattered muck on a car once and we got taken in.”

“In where?”

“Into the police station.”

“You have a police record?”

“Ah no. It was only in fun. It was a car from Cork.”

“I’m from Cork,” he said and he laughed at the same time. “Maybe you’re the fella who threw the bricks at us when we drove by last year.”

“Jeez, no! I never threw bricks. I only threw sods of grass. Grass wouldn’t do much. We sometimes dipped the sods of grass in water before we threw them but we never threw
bricks!”

“You must have hit me once or twice.”

“Ah no! I always missed on purpose.”

“You’re a right bunch of whelps – all you fellas up there in Inchicore! Throwing stones at unsuspecting cars! You could have hurt somebody or caused a crash or
something.”

“I stopped throwing stones years ago. I swear. I haven’t thrown a stone at a car from Cork since I was twelve. Others still do it but I don’t. I’m tellin’ you the
truth.”

Mr. Brown leaned back in his chair. “I might be able to do somethin’ about the shirt and tie.” He stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. “Follow me.”

He walked down the corridor where he opened another door that led to the back stairs. I walked behind him. In a minute or two we were in the basement walking past mountains of food crates and
sacks of potatoes piled up to the ceiling. Laundry carts filled with bed-sheets and towels were pushed by men and women in striped aprons. Everybody said hello as if they knew me. In a second or
two I was in the waiter’s dressing room where five or six fellows were either getting dressed or undressing. A few were inspecting themselves in the mirror. Mr. Brown walked to the centre of
the room. Everybody turned to him.

“I’ve a new fellow who’s goin’ to be working here next week. He’ll be up on the fifth floor. Early morning shift. Breakfasts.”

Some of the faces turned to get a look at me. They then turned back to grooming themselves. “Can anybody loan him a white shirt and a black bow tie?”

There was a silence. I was looked at from head to toe by the waiters.

An old waiter, Mick McQuaid, called from his locker. “He can have one of mine! I’m retiring next month.”

Another waiter stepped forward and put a black bow tie in my hand without saying a word. I thought it was very nice of him.

“Thanks very much,” I said.

A few other young fellas were polishing their shoes and appeared to be hiding their heads away from Mr. Brown. I was feeling at home.

Mr. Brown walked up to one of the fellas. “I heard you bought a new suit this week, Sam?” Sam reached up to the top shelf on his locker, took down a brown-paper bag and handed the
bag to Mr. Brown who in turn pulled a pair of black trousers out of it. He handed me the black trousers. “Make sure they fit. Be here at six o’clock in the morning next
Monday.”

With that he turned and walked out of the dressing room.

I stood holding a white shirt, bow tie and black trousers. I then stepped out of my own trousers and tried on the one Sam gave to me. It was a perfect fit. While I was at it I put on the white
shirt and black bow tie. When I looked at myself in the mirror I almost fainted. I was so dressed-up-looking and ready for a fancy-dress ball. I didn’t want to get out of the trousers so I
left them on. I held my old tattered pair and felt like throwing them into the wastebasket.

The other young waiter, Dessie O’Neill, leaned down and picked up the brown-paper bag. “Put it in this.”

I put my old trousers in the bag, thanked him and the other waiters and walked out of the room.

A minute after I left the waiter’s dressing-room I got lost in the hotel basement and after searching for a door or a window I ended up in the kitchen. The main kitchen of the hotel was
like a jungle, hot and steamy. I could hardly see in front of myself. Stoves with barrels of bubbling soup and chickens hanging downwards everywhere. Chefs were screaming at each other and
everybody else in the kitchen. I stuck my finger into a cream cake but I was abruptly grabbed by a chef and pushed out the door. He yelled something in French at me but I didn’t know
what.

Seconds later and as lost as I had ever been in my life I found myself walking through the laundry room.

A woman folding bed-sheets noticed my confusion. “Are ya lost, son?” she called.

“I’m goin’ to be workin’ here!” I yelled over the steam presses.

“Grand. Grand! I need a bit of help down here.”

“I’ll be serving breakfast!” I called to her.

“Breakfast?”

The woman stopped what she was doing, took me by the hand and led me out. “Y’ll have to be in early for that shift,” she said.

She took me to the service lift. I got on it.

“When d’ya start?” she asked.

“Monda’ mornin’.”

“I’ll do your shirts and aprons for a few pennies. Don’t forget that now.”